No. 64.] SATURDAY,
JULY 14, 1860 [PRICE 2d.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
———•———
PART THE SECOND. HARTRIGHT'S NARRATIVE.
IX.
Once out of sight of the church,
I pressed forward briskly on my way to Knowlesbury.
The road was, for the most part, straight and level.
Whenever I looked back over it, I saw the two spies, steadily following me.
For the greater part of the way, they kept at a safe distance behind. But,
once or twice, they quickened their pace, as if with the purpose of
overtaking me—then stopped—consulted together—and fell back again to their
former position. They had some special object evidently in view; and they
seemed to be hesitating, or differing about the best means of accomplishing
it. I could not guess exactly what their design might be; but I felt serious
doubts of reaching Knowlesbury without some mischance on the way.
I had just entered on a lonely part of the road, with a
sharp turn at some distance ahead, and had concluded (calculating by time)
that I must now be getting near to the town, when I suddenly heard the steps
of the men close behind me.
Before I could look round, one of them (the man by whom
I had been followed in London) passed rapidly on my left side, and hustled
me with his shoulder. I had been more irritated by the manner in which he
and his companion had dogged my steps all the way from Old Welmingham than I
was myself aware of; and I unfortunately pushed the fellow away smartly with
my open hand. He instantly shouted for help. His companion, the tall man in
the gamekeeper’s clothes, sprang to my right side—and the next moment the
two scoundrels held me pinioned between them in the middle of the road.
The conviction that a trap had been laid for me, and
the vexation of knowing that I had fallen into it, fortunately restrained me
from making my position still worse by an unavailing struggle with two
men—one of whom would in all probability have been more than a match for me,
single handed. I repressed the first natural movement by which I had
attempted to shake them off, and looked about to see if there was any person
near to whom I could appeal.
A labourer was at work in an adjoining field, who must
have witnessed all that had passed. I called to him to follow us to the
town. He shook his head with stolid obstinacy, and walked away, in the
direction of a cottage which stood back from the high road. At the same time
the men who held me between them declared their intention of charging me
with an assault. I was cool enough and wise enough, now, to make no
opposition. “Drop your hold of my arms,” I said, “and I will go with you to
the town.” The man in the gamekeeper’s dress roughly refused. But the
shorter man was sharp enough to look to consequences, and not to let his
companion commit himself by unnecessary violence. He made a sign to the
other, and I walked on between them, with my arms free.
We reached the turning in the road; and there, close
before us, were the suburbs of Knowlesbury. One of the local policemen was
walking along the path by the roadside. The men at once appealed to him. He
replied that the magistrate was then sitting at the town-hall; and
recommended that we should appear before him immediately.
We went on to the town-hall. The clerk made out a
formal summons; and the charge was preferred against me, with the customary
exaggeration and the customary perversion of the truth, on such occasions.
The magistrate (an ill-tempered man, with a sour enjoyment in the exercise
of his own power) inquired if any one on, or near, the road had witnessed
the assault; and, greatly to my surprise, the complainant admitted the
presence of the labourer in the field. I was enlightened, however, as to the
object of the admission, by the magistrate’s next words. He remanded me, at
once, for the production of the witness; expressing, at the same time, his
willingness to take bail for my reappearance, if I could produce one
responsible surety to offer it. If I had been known in the town, he would
have liberated me on my own recognisances; but, as I was a total stranger,
it was necessary that I should find responsible bail.
The whole object of the stratagem was now disclosed to
me. It had been so managed as to make a remand necessary in a town where I
was a perfect stranger, and where I could not hope to get my liberty on
bail. The remand merely extended over three days, until the next sitting of
the magistrate. But, in that time, while I was in confinement, Sir Percival
might use any means he pleased to embarrass my future proceedings—perhaps to
screen himself from detection altogether—without the slightest fear of any
hindrance on my part. At the end of the three days, the charge would, no
doubt, be withdrawn; and the attendance of the witness would be perfectly
useless.
My indignation, I may almost say, my despair, at this
mischievous check to all further progress—so base and trifling in itself,
and yet so disheartening and so serious in its probable results—quite
unfitted me, at first, to reflect on the best means of extricating myself
from the dilemma in which I now stood. I had the folly to call for writing
materials, and to think of privately communicating my real position to the
magistrate. The hopelessness and the imprudence of this proceeding failed to
strike me before I had actually written the opening lines of the letter. It
was not till I had pushed the paper away—not till, I am ashamed to say, I
had almost allowed the vexation of my helpless position to conquer me—that a
course of action suddenly occurred to my mind, which Sir Percival had
probably not anticipated, and which might set me free again in a few hours.
I determined to communicate my situation to Mr. Dawson, of Oak Lodge.
I had visited this gentleman’s house, it may
ɒe remembered, at the time of my first inquiries in the
Blackwater Park neighbourhood; and I had presented to him a letter of
introduction from Miss Halcombe, in which she recommended me to his friendly
attention in the strongest terms. I now wrote, referring to this letter, and
to what I had previously told Mr. Dawson of the delicate and dangerous
nature of my inquiries. I had not revealed to him the truth about Laura;
having merely described my errand as being of the utmost importance to
private family interests with which Miss Halcombe was concerned. Using the
same caution still, I now accounted for my presence at Knowlesbury in the
same manner—and I put it to the doctor to say whether the trust reposed in
me by a lady whom he well knew, and the hospitality I had myself received in
his house, justified me or not in asking him to come to my assistance in a
place where I was quite friendless.
I obtained permission to hire a messenger to drive away
at once with my letter, in a conveyance which might be used to bring the
doctor back immediately. Oak Lodge was on the Knowlesbury side of Blackwater.
The man declared he could drive there in forty minutes, and could bring Mr.
Dawson back in forty more. I directed him to follow the doctor wherever he
might happen to be, if he was not at home—and then sat down to wait for the
result with all the patience and all the hope that I could summon to help
me.
It was not quite half-past one when the messenger
departed. Before half-past three, he returned, and brought the doctor with
him. Mr. Dawson’s kindness, and the delicacy with which he treated his
prompt assistance quite as a matter of course, almost overpowered me. Bail
was offered, and accepted immediately. Before four o’clock, on that
afternoon, I was shaking hands warmly with the good old doctor—a free man
again—in the streets of Knowlesbury.
Mr. Dawson hospitably invited me to go back with him to
Oak Lodge, and take up my quarters there for the night. I could only reply
that my time was not my own; I could only ask him to let me pay my visit in
a few days, when I might repeat my thanks, and offer to him all the
explanations which I felt to be only his due, but which I was not then in a
position to make. We parted with friendly assurances on both sides; and I
turned my steps at once to Mr. Wansborough’s office in the High-street.
Time was now of the last importance. The news of my
being free on bail would reach Sir Percival, to an absolute certainty,
before night. If the next few hours did not put me in a position to justify
his worst fears, and to hold him helpless at my mercy, I might lose every
inch of the ground I had gained, never to recover it again. The unscrupulous
nature of the man, the local influence he possessed, the desperate peril of
exposure with which my blindfold inquiries threatened him—all warned me to
press on to positive discovery, without the useless waste of a single
minute. I had found time to think, while I was waiting for Mr. Dawson’s
arrival; and I had well employed it. Certain portions of the conversation of
the talkative old clerk, which had wearied me at the time, now recurred to
my memory with a new significance; and a suspicion crossed my mind darkly,
which had not occurred to me while I was in the vestry. On my way to
Knowlesbury, I had only proposed to apply to Mr. Wansborough for information
on the subject of Sir Percival’s mother. My object, now, was to examine the
duplicate register of Old Welmingham Church.
Mr. Wansborough was in his office when I inquired for
him.
He was a jovial, red-faced, easy-looking man—more like
a country squire than a lawyer—and he seemed to be both surprised and amused
by my application. He had heard of his father’s copy of the register; but
had not even seen it himself. It had never been inquired after—and it was no
doubt in the strong-room, among other old papers that had not been disturbed
since his father’s death. It was a pity (Mr. Wansborough said) that the old
gentleman was not alive to hear his precious copy asked for at last. He
would have ridden his favourite hobby harder than ever, now. How had I come
to hear of the copy? was it through anybody in the town?
I parried the question as well as I could. It was
impossible at this stage of the investigation to be too cautious; and it was
just as well not to let Mr. Wansborough know prematurely that I had already
examined the original register. I described myself, therefore, as pursuing a
family inquiry, to the object of which every possible saving of time was of
great importance. I was anxious to send certain particulars to London by
that day’s post; and one look at the duplicate register (paying, of course,
the necessary fees) might supply what I required, and save me a further
journey to Old Welmingham. I added that, in the event of my subsequently
requiring a copy of the original register, I should make application to Mr.
Wansborough’s office to furnish me with the document.
After this explanation, no objection was made to
producing the copy. A clerk was sent to the strong-room, and, after some
delay, returned with the volume. It was of exactly the same size as the
volume in the vestry; the only difference being that the copy was more
smartly bound. I took it with me to an unoccupied desk. My hands trembled—my
head was burning hot—I felt the necessity of concealing my agitation from
the persons about me in the room, before I ventured to open the book.
On the blank page at the beginning, to which I first
turned, were traced some lines, in faded ink. They contained these words:
“Copy of the Marriage Register of Welmingham Parish
Church. Executed under my orders; and afterwards compared, entry by entry,
with the original, by myself. (Signed) Robert Wansborough, vestry-clerk.”
Below this note, there was a line added, in another handwriting, as follows:
“Extending from the first of January, 1800, to the thirtieth of June, 1815.”
I turned to the month of September, eighteen hundred
and three. I found the marriage of the man whose Christian name was the same
as my own. I found the double register of the marriages of the two brothers.
And between these entries at the bottom of the page——?
Nothing! Not a vestige of the entry which recorded the
marriage of Sir Felix Glyde and Cecilia Jane Elster, in the register of the
church!
My heart gave a great bound, and throbbed as if it
would stifle me. I looked again—I was afraid to believe the evidence of my
own eyes. No! not a doubt. The marriage was not there. The entries on the
copy occupied exactly the same places on the page as the entries in the
original. The last entry on one page recorded the marriage of the man with
my Christian name. Below it, there was a blank space—a space evidently left
because it was too narrow to contain the entry of the marriages of the two
brothers, which in the copy, as in the original, occupied the top of the
next page. That space told the whole story! There it must have remained, in
the church register, from eighteen hundred and three (when the marriages had
been solemnised and the copy had been made) to eighteen hundred and
twenty-seven, when Sir Percival appeared at Old Welmingham. Here, at
Knowlesbury, was the chance of committing the forgery, shown to me in the
copy—and there, at Old Welmingham, was the forgery committed, in the
register of the church!
My head turned giddy; I held by the desk to keep myself
from falling. Of all the suspicions which had struck me, in relation to that
desperate man, not one had been near the truth. The idea that he was not Sir
Percival Glyde at all, that he had no more claim to the baronetcy and to
Blackwater Park than the poorest labourer who worked on the estate, had
never once occurred to my mind. At one time, I had thought he might be Anne
Catherick’s father; at another time, I had thought he might have been Anne
Catherick’s husband—the offence of which he was really guilty had been, from
first to last, beyond the widest reach of my imagination. The paltry means
by which the fraud had been effected, the magnitude and daring of the crime
that it represented, the horror of the consequences involved in its
discovery, overwhelmed me. Who could wonder, now, at the brute-restlessness
of the wretch’s life; at his desperate alternations between abject duplicity
and reckless violence; at the madness of guilty distrust which had made him
imprison Anne Catherick in the Asylum, and had given him over to the vile
conspiracy against his wife, on the bare suspicion that the one and the
other knew his terrible secret? The disclosure of that secret might, in past
years, have hanged him—might now transport him for life. The disclosure of
that secret, even if the sufferers by his deception spared him the penalties
of the law, would deprive him, at one blow, of the name, the rank, the
estate, the whole social existence that he had usurped. This was the Secret,
and it was mine! A word from me; and house, lands, baronetcy, were gone from
him for ever—a word from me, and he was driven out into the world a
nameless, penniless, friendless outcast! The man’s whole future hung on my
lips—and he knew it, by this time, as certainly as I did!
That last thought steadied me. Interests far more
precious than my own depended on the caution which must now guide my
slightest actions. There was no possible treachery which Sir Percival might
not attempt against me. In the danger and desperation of his position, he
would be staggered by no risks, he would recoil at no crime—he would,
literally, hesitate at nothing to save himself.
I considered for a minute. My first necessity was to
secure positive evidence, in writing, of the discovery that I had just made,
and, in the event of any personal misadventure happening to me, to place
that evidence beyond Sir Percival’s reach. The copy of the register was sure
to be safe in Mr. Wansborough’s strong-room. But the position of the
original, in the vestry, was, as I had seen, anything but secure.
In this emergency, I resolved to return to the church,
to apply again to the clerk, and to take the necessary extract from the
register, before I slept that night. I was not then aware that a
legally-certified copy was necessary, and that no document merely drawn out
by myself could claim the proper importance, as a proof. I was not aware of
this; and my determination to keep my present proceedings a secret,
prevented me from asking any questions which might have procured the
necessary information. My one anxiety was the anxiety to get back to Old
Welmingham. I made the best excuses I could for the discomposure in my face
and manner, which Mr. Wansborough had already noticed; laid the necessary
fee on his table; arranged that I should write to him, in a day or two; and
left the office, with my head in a whirl, and my blood throbbing through my
veins at fever heat.
It was just getting dark. The idea occurred to me that
I might be followed again, and attacked on the high road.
My walking-stick was a light one, of little or no use
for purposes of defence. I stopped, before leaving Knowlesbury, and bought a
stout country cudgel, short, and heavy at the head. With this homely weapon,
if any one man tried to stop me, I was a match for him. If more than one
attacked me, I could trust to my heels. In my school-days, I had been a
noted runner—and I had not wanted for practice since, in the later time of
my experience in Central America.
I started from the town at a brisk pace, and kept the
middle of the road. A small misty rain was falling; and it was impossible,
for the first half of the way, to make sure whether I was followed or not.
But at the last half of my journey, when I supposed myself to be about two
miles from the church, I saw a man run by me in the rain—and then heard the
gate of a field by the roadside shut to, sharply. I kept straight on, with
my cudgel ready in my hand, my ears on the alert, and my eyes straining to
see through the mist and the darkness. Before I had advanced a hundred
yards, there was a rustling in the hedge on my right hand, and three men
sprang out into the road.
I instantly drew aside on the instant to the footpath.
The two foremost men were carried beyond me, before they could check
themselves. The third was as quick as lightning. He stopped—half turned—and
struck at me with his stick. The blow was aimed at hazard, and was not a
severe one. It fell on my left shoulder. I returned it heavily on his head.
He staggered back, and jostled his two companions, just as they were both
rushing at me. This gave me a moment’s start. I slipped past them, and took
to the middle of the road again, at the top of my speed.
The two unhurt men pursued me. They were both good
runners; the road was smooth and level; and, for the first five minutes or
more, I was conscious that I did not gain on them. It was perilous work to
run for long in the darkness. I could barely see the dim black line of the
hedges on either side; and any chance obstacle in the road would have thrown
me down to a certainty. Ere long, I felt the ground changing: it descended
from the level, at a turn, and then rose again beyond. Down-hill, the men
rather gained on me; but, up-hill, I began to distance them. The rapid,
regular thump of their feet grew fainter on my ear; and I calculated by the
sound that I was far enough in advance to take to the fields, with a good
chance of their passing me in the darkness. Diverging to the footpath, I
made for the first break that I could guess at, rather than see, in the
hedge. It proved to be a closed gate. I vaulted over, and finding myself in
a field, kept across it steadily, with my back to the road. I heard the men
pass the gate, still running—then, in a minute more, heard one of them call
to the other to come back. It was no matter what they did, now; I was out of
their sight and out of their hearing. I kept straight across the field, and,
when I had reached the further extremity of it, waited there for a minute to
recover my breath.
It was impossible to venture back to the road; but I
was determined, nevertheless, to get to Old Welmingham that evening.
Neither moon nor stars appeared to guide me. I only
knew that I had kept the wind and rain at my back on leaving Knowlesbury—and
if I now kept them at my back still, I might at least be certain of not
advancing altogether in the wrong direction. Proceeding on this plan, I
crossed the country—meeting with no worse obstacles than hedges, ditches,
and thickets, which every now and then obliged me to alter my course for a
little while—until I found myself on a hill-side, with the ground sloping
away steeply before me. I descended to the bottom of the hollow, squeezed my
way through a hedge, and got out into a lane. Having turned to the right on
leaving the road, I now turned to the left, on the chance of returning to
the line from which I had wandered. After following the muddy windings of
the lane for ten minutes or more, I saw a cottage with a light in one of the
windows. The garden gate was open to the lane; and I went in at once to
inquire my way.
Before I could knock at the door, it was suddenly
opened, and a man came running out with a lighted lantern in his hand. He
stopped and held it up at the sight of me. We both started as we saw each
other. My wanderings had led me round the outskirts of the village, and had
brought me out at the lower end of it. I was back at Old Welmingham; and the
man with the lantern was no other than my acquaintance of the morning, the
parish clerk.
His manner appeared to have altered strangely, in the
interval since I had last seen him. He looked suspicious and confused; his
ruddy cheeks were deeply flushed; and his first words, when he spoke, were
quite unintelligible to me.
“Where are the keys?” he said. “Have you taken them?”
“What keys?” I asked. “I have only this moment come
from Knowlesbury. What keys do you mean?”
“The keys of the vestry. Lord save us and help us! what
shall I do? The keys are gone! Do you hear?” The old man shook the lantern
at me in his agitation. “The keys are gone!”
“How? When? Who can have taken them?”
“I don’t know,” said the clerk, staring about him
wildly in the darkness. “I’ve only just got back. I told you I had a long
day’s work this morning—I locked the door, and shut the window down—it’s
open now, the window’s open. Look! somebody has got in there, and taken the
keys.”
He turned to the casement-window to show me that it was
wide open. The door of the lantern came loose from its fastening as he
swayed it round; and the wind blew the candle out.
“Get another light,” I said; “and let us both go to the
vestry together. Quick! quick!”
I hurried him into the house. The treachery that I had
every reason to expect, the treachery that might deprive me of every
advantage I had gained, was, at that moment, perhaps, in process of
accomplishment. My impatience to reach the church was so great, that I could
not remain inactive in the cottage while the clerk lit the lantern again. I
walked out, down the garden path, into the lane.
Before I had advanced ten paces, a man approached me
from the direction leading to the church. He spoke respectfully as we met. I
could not see his face; but, judging by his voice only, he was a perfect
stranger to me.
“I beg your pardon, Sir Percival——” he began.
I stopped him before he could say more.
“The darkness misleads you,” I said. “I am not Sir
Percival.”
The man drew back directly.
“I thought it was my master,” he muttered, in a
confused, doubtful way.
“You expected to meet your master here?”
“I was told to wait in the lane.”
With that answer, he retraced his steps. I looked back
at the cottage, and saw the clerk coming out, with the lantern lighted once
more. I took the old man’s arm to help him on the more quickly. We hastened
along the lane, and passed the person who had accosted me. As well as I
could see by the light of the lantern, he was a servant out of livery.
“Who’s that?” whispered the clerk. “Does he know
anything about the keys?”
“We won’t wait to ask him,” I replied. “We will go on
to the vestry first.”
The church was not visible, even by daytime, until the
end of the lane was reached. As we mounted the rising ground which led to
the building from that point, one of the village children—a boy—came up to
us, attracted by the light we carried, and recognised the clerk.
“I say, measter,” said the boy, pulling officiously at
the clerk’s coat, “there be summun up yander in the church. I heerd un lock
the door on hisself—I heerd un strike a loight wi’ a match.”
The clerk trembled, and leaned against me heavily.
“Come! come!” I said, encouragingly. “We are not too
late. We will catch the man, whoever he is. Keep the lantern, and follow me
as fast as you can.”
I mounted the hill rapidly. The dark mass of the
church-tower was the first object I discerned dimly against the night sky.
As I turned aside to get round to the vestry, I heard heavy footsteps close
to me. The servant had ascended to the church after us. “I don’t mean any
harm,” he said, when I turned round on him; “I’m only looking for my
master.” His tones betrayed unmistakable fear. I took no notice of him, and
went on.
The instant I turned the corner, and came in view of
the vestry, I saw the lantern-skylight on the roof brilliantly lit up from
within. It shone out with dazzling brightness against the murky, starless
sky.
I hurried through the churchyard to the door.
As I got near, there was a strange smell stealing out
on the damp night air. I heard a snapping noise inside—I saw the light above
grow brighter and brighter—a pane of the glass cracked—I ran to the door,
and put my hand on it. The vestry was on fire!
Before I could move, before I could draw my breath, I
was horror-struck by a heavy thump against the door, from the inside. I
heard the key worked violently in the lock—I heard a man’s voice, behind the
door, raised to a dreadful shrillness, screaming for help.
The servant, who had followed me, staggered back
shuddering, and dropped to his knees. “Oh, my God!” he said; “it’s Sir
Percival!”
As the words passed his lips, the clerk joined us—and,
at the same moment, there was a last grating turn of the key in the lock.
“The Lord have mercy on his soul!” said the old man.
“He is doomed and dead. He has hampered the lock.”
I rushed to the door. The one absorbing purpose that
had filled all my thoughts, that had controlled all my actions, for weeks
and weeks past, vanished in an instant from my mind. All remembrance of the
heartless injury the man’s crimes had inflicted; of the love, the innocence,
the happiness he had pitilessly laid waste; of the oath I had sworn in my
own heart to summon him to the terrible reckoning that he deserved—passed
from my memory like a dream. I remembered nothing but the horror of his
situation. I felt nothing but the natural human impulse to save him from a
frightful death.
“Try the other door!” I shouted. “Try the door into the
church! The lock’s hampered. You’re a dead man if you waste another moment!”
There had been no renewed cry for help, when the key
was turned for the last time. There was no sound, now, of any kind, to give
token that he was still alive. I heard nothing but the quickening crackle of
the flames, and the sharp snap of the glass in the skylight above.
I looked round at my two companions. The servant had
risen to his feet: he had taken the lantern, and was holding it up vacantly
at the door. Terror seemed to have struck him with downright idiocy—he
waited at my heels, he followed me about when I moved, like a dog. The clerk
sat crouched up on one of the tombstones, shivering, and moaning to himself.
The one moment in which I looked at them was enough to show me that they
were both helpless.
Hardly knowing what I did, acting desperately on the
first impulse that occurred to me, I seized the servant and pushed him
against the vestry wall. “Stoop!” I said, “and hold by the stones. I am
going to climb over you to the roof—I am going to break the skylight, and
give him some air!” The man trembled from head to foot, but he held firm. I
got on his back, with my cudgel in my mouth; seized the parapet with both
hands; and was instantly on the roof. In the frantic hurry and agitation of
the moment, it never struck me that I might let out the flame instead of
letting in the air. I struck at the skylight, and battered in the cracked,
loosened glass at a blow. The fire leaped out like a wild beast from its
lair. If the wind had not chanced, in the position I occupied, to set it
away from me, my exertions might have ended then and there. I crouched on
the roof as the smoke poured out above me, with the flame. The gleams and
flashes of the light showed me the servant’s face staring up vacantly under
the wall; the clerk risen to his feet on the tombstone, wringing his hands
in despair; and the scanty population of the village, haggard men and
terrified women, clustered beyond in the churchyard—all appearing and
disappearing, in the red of the dreadful glare, in the black of the choking
smoke. And the man beneath my feet!—the man, suffocating, burning, dying so
near us all, so utterly beyond our reach!
The thought half maddened me. I lowered myself from the
roof, by my hands, and dropped to the ground.
“The key of the church!” I shouted to the clerk. “We
must try it that way—we may save him yet if we can burst open the inner
door.”
“No, no, no!” cried the old man. “No hope! the church
key and the vestry key are on the same ring—both inside there! Oh, sir, he’s
past saving—he’s dust and ashes by this time!”
“They’ll see the fire from the town,” said a voice from
among the men behind me. “There’s a ingine in the town. They’ll save the
church.”
I called to that man—he
had his wits about him—I called
to him to come and speak to me. It would be a quarter of an hour at least
before the town engine could reach us. The horror of remaining inactive, all
that time, was more than I could face. In defiance of my own reason I
persuaded myself that the doomed and lost wretch in the vestry might still
be lying senseless on the floor, might not be dead yet. If we broke open the
door, might we save him? I knew the strength of the heavy lock—I knew the
thickness of the nailed oak—I knew the hopelessness of assailing the one and
the other by ordinary means. But surely there were beams still left in the
dismantled cottages near the church? What if we got one, and used it as a
battering-ram against the door?
The thought leaped through me, like the fire leaping
out of the shattered skylight. I appealed to the man who had spoken first of
the fire-engine in the town. “Have you got your pickaxes handy?” Yes; they
had. “And a hatchet, and a saw, and a bit of rope?” Yes! yes! yes! I ran
down among the villagers, with the lantern in my hand. “Five shillings
apiece to every man who helps me!” They started into life at the words. That
ravenous second hunger of poverty—the hunger for money—roused them into
tumult and activity in a moment. “Two of you for more lanterns if you have
them! Two of you for the pickaxes and the tools! The rest after me to find
the beam!” They cheered—with shrill starveling voices they cheered. The
women and the children fled back on either side. We rushed in a body down
the churchyard path to the first empty cottage. Not a man was left behind
but the clerk—the poor old clerk standing on the flat tombstone sobbing and
wailing over the church. The servant was still at my heels; his white,
helpless, panic-stricken face was close over my shoulder as we pushed into
the cottage. There were rafters from the torn-down floor above, lying loose
on the ground—but they were too light. A beam ran across over our heads, but
not out of reach of our arms and our pickaxes—a beam fast at each end in the
ruined wall, with ceiling and flooring all ripped away, and a great gap in
the roof above, open to the sky. We attacked the beam at both ends at once.
God! how it held—how the brick and mortar of the wall resisted us! We
struck, and tugged, and tore. The beam gave at one end—it came down with a
lump of brickwork after it. There was a scream from the women all huddled in
the doorway to look at us—a shout from the men—two of them down, but not
hurt. Another tug all together—and the beam was loose at both ends. We
raised it, and gave the word to clear the doorway. Now for the work! now for
the rush at the door! There is the fire streaming into the sky, streaming
brighter than ever to light us! Steady, along the churchyard path—steady
with the beam, for a rush at the door. One, two, three—and off. Out rings
the cheering again, irrepressibly. We have shaken it already; the hinges
must give, if the lock won’t. Another run with the beam! One, two, three—and
off. It’s loose! the stealthy fire darts at us through the crevice all round
it. Another, and a last rush! The door falls in with a crash. A great hush
of awe, a stillness of breathless expectation, possesses every living soul
of us. We look for the body. The scorching heat on our faces drives us back:
we see nothing—above, below, all through the room, we see nothing but a
sheet of living fire.
“Where is he?” whispered the servant, staring vacantly
at the flames.
“He’s dust and ashes,” said the clerk. “And the books
are dust and ashes—and oh, sirs! the church will be dust and ashes soon.”
When they were silent again, nothing stirred in the
stillness but the bubble and the crackle of the flames.
Hark!
A harsh rattling sound in the distance—then, the hollow
beat of horses’ hoofs at full gallop—then, the low roar, the all-predominant
tumult of hundreds of human voices clamouring and shouting together. The
engine at last!
The people about me all turned from the fire, and ran
eagerly to the brow of the hill. The old clerk tried to go with the rest;
but his strength was exhausted. I saw him holding by one of the tombstones.
“Save the church!” he cried out, faintly, as if the firemen could hear him
already. “Save the church!”
The only man who never moved was the servant. There he
stood, his eyes still fastened on the flames in a changeless, vacant stare.
I spoke to him, I shook him by the arm. He was past rousing. He only
whispered once more, “Where is he?”
In ten minutes, the engine was in position; the well at
the back of the church was feeding it; and the hose was carried to the
doorway of the vestry. If help had been wanted from me, I could not have
afforded it now. My energy of will was gone—my strength was exhausted—the
turmoil of my thoughts was fearfully and suddenly stilled, now I knew that
he was dead. I stood useless and helpless—looking, looking, looking into the
burning room.
I saw the fire slowly conquered. The brightness of the
glare faded—the steam rose in white clouds, and the smouldering heaps of
embers showed red and black through it on the floor. There was a pause—then,
an advance all together of the firemen and the police, which blocked up the
doorway—then a consultation in low voices—and then, two men were detached
from the rest, and sent out of the churchyard through the crowd. The crowd
drew back in dead silence, to let them pass.
After a while, a great shudder ran through the people;
and the living lane widened slowly. The men came back along it, with a door
from one of the empty houses. They carried it to the vestry, and went in.
The police closed again round the doorway; and men stole out from among the
crowd by twos and threes, and stood behind them, to be the first to see.
Others waited near, to be the first to hear. Women were among these
last—women with children in their arms.
The tidings from the vestry began to flow out among the
crowd—they dropped slowly from mouth to mouth, till they reached the place
where I was standing. I heard the questions and answers repeated again and
again, in low, eager tones, all round me.
“Have they found him?” “Yes.”—”Where?” “Against the
door. On his face.”—”Which door?” “The door that goes into the church. His
head was against it. He was down on his face.”—”Is his face burnt?” “No.”
“Yes, it is.” “No: scorched, not burnt. He lay on his face, I tell
you.”—”Who was he? A lord, they say.” “No, not a lord.
Sir
Something; Sir means Knight.” “And
Baroknight, too.” “No.” “Yes, it does.”—”What did he want in there?” “No
good, you may depend on it.”—”Did he do it on purpose?”—”Burn himself on
purpose!”—”I don’t mean himself; I mean the vestry.”—”Is he dreadful to look
at?” “Dreadful!”—”Not about the face, though?” “No, no; not so much about
the face.”—”Don’t anybody know him?” “There’s a man says he does.”—”Who?” “A
servant, they say. But he’s struck stupid-like, and the police don’t believe
him.”—”Don’t anybody else know who it is?” “Hush——!”
The loud, clear voice of a man in authority silenced
the low hum of talking all round me, in an instant.
“Where is the gentleman who tried to save him?” said
the voice.
“Here, sir—here he is!” Dozens of eager faces pressed
about me—dozens of eager arms parted the crowd. The man in authority came up
to me with a lantern in his hand.
“This way, sir, if you please,” he said, quietly.
I was unable to speak to him; I was unable to resist
him, when he took my arm. I tried to say that I had never seen the dead man,
in his lifetime—that there was no hope of identifying him by means of a
stranger like me. But the words failed on my lips. I was faint and silent
and helpless.
“Do you know him, sır?”
I was standing inside a circle of men. Three of them,
opposite to me, were holding lanterns low down to the ground. Their eyes,
and the eyes of all the rest, were fixed silently and expectantly on my
face. I knew what was at my feet—I knew why they were holding the lanterns
so low to the ground.
“Can you identify him, sir?”
My eyes dropped slowly. At first, I saw nothing under
them but a coarse canvas cloth. The dripping of the rain on it was audible
in the dreadful silence. I looked up, along the cloth; and there at the end,
stark and grim and black, in the yellow light—there, was his dead face.
So, for the first and last time, I saw him. So the
Visitation of God ruled it that he and I should meet.
All The Year Round, 14 July 1860, Vol.III, No.64, pp.313-319
Weekly Part 34.
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